


ice skates

by grumpsy



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Alex is an idiot, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Shopping, Ice Skating, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, can you tell I'm not american, good old fashioned gays, john is a Blessing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 18:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13129224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpsy/pseuds/grumpsy
Summary: John’s gentle hands helped to guide him across the ice, moving them as one entity. Their skates weren't moving in sync, but, in a way, echoing the men's heartbeats, regulated and mismatched yet somehow unified.It was pretty gay.Alex was pretty gay.





	ice skates

It was cold; that was expected. That was how it worked - the snow settled, melted equally as fast, and left behind a sharp, nipping chill. Temperatures dropped, news channels warned of black ice; it was the same every year. Hamilton had gotten used to the pinpricks in his fingers, the loss of feeling in his toes - it was all part and parcel of the appeal of winter.

 

It’d never snowed in Nevis. It had gotten cold, sure, chilled Hamilton to the bone, but he’d never experienced the overzealous joy of snowflakes until he moved to New York. It wasn’t like the movies, though. The snow never stayed for long, and yet, regardless of the festive cheer, of the rosy cheeks and ugly sweaters, Hamilton couldn’t help but pull his coat tighter. 

 

The queue was moving at a painful pace, children bustling impatiently to get their skates on. It was loud - not like the quiet mumbling of the office they’d just left, all silent glares and hushed confrontations; this noise was unabashed, uncontrolled, chaotic. 

 

He’d never experienced this before, not like this.

 

It reminded him of the storm.

 

He wouldn’t think about that, he  _ shouldn’t _ . He’d decided that early on, promised himself he’d leave it all behind when he first moved to New York - he’d redefine himself, his legacy, he wasn’t about to be pitied for being an orphan of the storm - and re-established his mantra after the repressed memories began to creep to the surface again, and, like a politician with an impossible proposition, Alexander struggled to prod the tiny, broken promise back into its equally tiny cage. 

 

But the biting breeze was a force to be reckoned with - he’d experienced its brute force first hand. Huddled helplessly, clutching a paper-thin blanket in amidst the chaos, hid a small boy, isolated, frozen, still. The beast towered overhead, immitigable, unyielding, with razor-sharp claws avulsing roofs from every opposing structure. 

 

Hamilton remembered the cold, remembered the malignant concoction of overpowering lonesomeness and pure fear. He remembered the irrefutable desire to call out to a mother long gone, to scream her name until his lungs gave out. 

 

And then all was quiet. All the thunder, the screams, the utter devastation of a town wiped off the map dulled to a low rumbling, as though the hurricane had simply moved on to stalk its next prey, leaving unapologetic carnage behind. Eradication of entire family trees, ancient structures, schools. It was effortless. It was quiet.

 

Yet he didn’t die,  _ of course, he didn’t _ . He never could seem to.

 

Here he was. Alive. Waiting. Always waiting. And he was goddamn sick of it. 

 

“Alex,” his friend nudged him lightly, “You okay? You drifted off for a minute there.”

 

_ Goddamn Laurens,  _ he cursed _ , goddamn Laurens and the stupid fucking genuine concern in his eyes. _

 

Alexander shrugged dismissively, noting the line before them was considerably shorter than before. That was good. Alex wasn’t exactly first-class when it came to patience.

 

Laurens was watching him, he observed, feeling his cheeks heat up at the notion. He wasn’t anything special,  _ shouldn’t be _ , especially not to John, especially not  _ compared to _ John. John Laurens was the Tate Modern, bursting at the seams with exquisite pieces by the likes of Picasso and Salvador Dalí, whilst Hamilton was the equivalent of spray paint tag on a dumpster.  

 

John inched closer, bordering near the point at which Alex would not be held responsible for his single-handed destruction of their friendship. He shouldn’t be able to do that, he thought; he shouldn’t be able to look that good and be that nice and become the very definition of perfection when Alexander wasn’t allowed to call him more than a friend. He didn’t want anyone else to be able to gawk in the wake of his presence. He didn’t want anyone else to have the opportunity to attribute each and every freckle amongst the constellations on his skin with stars in the solar system. He didn’t want anyone else to look at John the way he did.

 

His mentality was selfish, sure, but when you had a friend like Laurens, you learned to externalise jealousy.

 

In his mind, he was taken back to last years Christmas party. He was always taken back there, back to the icicles clinging to the window sill like a phantoms fingers, to standing alone by the food table, nursing his beer as he watched the intern drape herself over his friend on the office’s makeshift dance floor. Alex distinctly remembered his jaw clenching as John span her ( _ Poppy? Peggy? Did it really matter? _ ) around to the Christmas hits, smiling at her as though she held the stars in her eyes. His bun bounced ridiculously as Alex fought a sad smile, intently aware of his friend's abandoned hat in his pocket. 

 

The hats had been Lafayette’s idea, each member of their group wearing a unique, yet ugly, design. John’s was arguably the cutest, an elf hat equipt with its own ears; it was horrible, but he’d made it work. Until she came over, clad in a pale yellow frock, curled hair flowing behind her as she walked. Laurens had removed the hat immediately.

 

Alex still stood there, watching, waiting, with a fucking turkey on his head. He felt like an idiot.

 

But he wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t jealous of the way her painted lips caught his friends attention, or the way that his hands rested on her hips as they swayed to ‘Wham!’, and he certainly wasn’t jealous of the way their lips met under the mistletoe. Except he was,  _ he really was _ . And he hated it.

 

Now, a year later, he was queueing beside his friend, subconsciously shooting John’s admirers bitter glares across the ice.

 

It wasn’t even a date. It was just two  _ platonic _ colleagues meeting after work to take the other ice skating, because that’s just what friends did. And then there was the case of who asked who, and then, of course, the fact that John had volunteered to stay behind after his shift ended for Hamilton to come out of a meeting, which, you know, he didn’t have to do, Alexander could have been in that room for anywhere between 10 minutes to several hours, because lord knows that man loved the sound of his own voice.

 

Yet he’d waited patiently, loyally brandishing hot chocolates by the reception.

 

John had stepped closer still, likely on account of Alexander’s uncharacteristic silence, watching him with the intensity of a thousand suns. Alex found himself looking at the floor, counting the tiles.  _ One, two, three... _

 

Laurens was warm; that was nice. His hand fit into Alex’s in a way that provided too much comfort, far too much. He knew it shouldn’t; he knew he shouldn’t put so much importance into a simple, friendly action, and yet there he was, clinging desperately to the innocent lifeline John was holding out for him, blissfully unaware of the consequences such a proposition had on Hamilton’s mental state. Slender fingers, far too smooth, too soft, brushed against Alexander’s calloused knuckles like watercolour brushes, painting the skin with a pale blush. 

 

Alex wanted to scream, to sing, to celebrate; the emotions searing through his body incomprehensibly. It was too much, lungs filling with hope and fear and underlying anxiety, the remaining, strained air sweetened by the very smile that clung to John’s cheeks like cupcake crumbs. It was too much, far too much, yet not nearly enough, not even close. It would never be enough. Not until Alexander could call John his own.

 

He sighed. He wouldn't think about that now.

 

Everything was going smoothly. The admission had been split between the two men (at the very adamant request of Hamilton, of course; he could pay for himself, John,  _ thank you very much _ ), and the skates had been hired (and if Alex had to help John with his laces, well, that wasn’t anyone’s business); finally, they were on the ice.

 

Well, almost. 

 

Alex stepped out onto the ice with immense gusto, the anxiety from simple hand holding and the empty implications that itself held contorting reasonably helpfully into adrenaline. However, this being Alexander’s first experience skating, he slipped - Bambi on ice style - as soon as his skate met the floor, sending him flying backwards into his conveniently located prince charming. 

 

John giggled, honest to God giggled; “Whoa! Hold onto the barrier,” - Hamilton was sure he imagined the ‘babe’ that followed, absolutely positive, but his stomach twisted regardless. Instead of transfixing on the heat on his waist, on the hand holding him carefully just under his coat, he focused his energy on the welcome distraction beside him, gripping the ice cold metal with far too much force. White-knuckled and anxiety-ridden, Alex slid gently into the rink. Laurens followed suit effortlessly.

 

“How did you make that look so easy?” Hamilton groaned, feeling his face flush with embarrassment.

 

Laurens chuckled, gliding closer to Alex. “Used to come skating with dad all the time,” he shrugged nonchalantly, as though that was enough to explain his newfound ‘oneness with the ice’, “Never been on a rink outdoors though; we’re both trying something new.”

 

The men stopped at the barrier for a moment.

 

Families made their way past with far more ease than Alex, himself, could have mustered. Children skated without aid, and Alexander couldn’t hide how envious he was that they were happy,  _ relaxed _ , whilst he stood holding the barrier with enough force to leave a dent - some turned to look at him as they passed, eyes not disguising their obvious confusion as to why a fully grown man, dressed in full work attire, hideously festive tie and all, was no less adapt to the ice rink than a newly born fawn. He would have hidden his face in shame if he hadn’t been putting so much faith into his hands holding him upright. 

 

The rink itself was decorated in pink and blue hues, each tone dancing independently beneath skates, swaying in time to the muffled music humming through the speakers. It was getting dark, the lack of sun casting a dark purple shade, only serving to enhance the purity of the ice. A tree adorned the centre of the arena, embellished with glistening lights and haphazardly strewn tinsel. Despite itself; despite the cheap baubles, dollar store ropes of beads, burnt out bulbs - it was beautiful, in a weird, consumerist reliant kind of way. 

 

“‘s nice,” Hamilton smiled softly, trying not to stare open-mouthed at the cacophony of colours before him. He felt John’s warmth beside him, causing a heat of quite the same manner to rise through him; the kind he had no chance of blaming on the ice.

 

“It’s cold,” John corrected, pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket as if to accentuate his point, “put these on.”

 

Alex looked at the clothing skeptically, as though it was a test; “I’m fine,” He argued, desperate to prove to Lauren's that he could, in fact, look after himself, and that he didn't need his friend’s parental guidance. 

 

John raised an eyebrow, “You’re shivering.”

 

He took the gloves. 

 

Regardless, Alexander was now more determined than ever to prove himself; he wasn't throwing away his one shot at impressing his friend - there was only so much you could do to show off in a law based firm before starting numerous arguments, and Alex could speak from experience. Still, it was just skating, right? Just like walking. One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left -

 

How did he get on the floor? 

 

Lauren's looked down at him, grinning with his hand out, the reminisce of sun highlighting every curl in his ponytail, and if anyone needed concrete evidence that John Laurens was an angel, there it was. 

 

And that hit him like a tonne of bricks, like a block of flats had fallen on top of him and pushed him deep into the ice, stealing the very air from his lungs, because Hamilton wasn't sure whether the little sparks of static dancing on his skin were from his chilled, numbness inducing surroundings, or the unmistakable glint of fondness in his friend’s eyes. 

 

Alex felt as though he was about to combust - he was overwhelmed with the desire to both cry and laugh, topped off with levelled feelings of panic and admiration - because the sincerity in John’s expression was enveloping him, suffocating him, because  _ why was he looking at him like that?  _ Why was he looking at him like it was the first time he’d seen the sunset, with wide eyes and a soft, genuine smile? He almost didn’t want to take the outstretched hand; he wanted to stay frozen in this moment, maybe not forever, but certainly for a very long while. A very long while full of very long eyelashes, and very stolen glances, and very mismatched heartbeats. As much as he craved the elongated kisses to the nape of the neck, and heated backseat touches, he could settle with looking. Just looking. And wanting.  _ Wanting _ .

 

Alex wanted. He couldn’t have. 

 

He shook his head.

 

Using a mixture of the floor and his friend to help himself up, Hamilton returned his grip to the railing, and his attention back to the task at hand. He tried to ignore the fact that Laurens was still watching him with a careful, calculated gaze, that he was still holding his hand as though their hands meeting like this was a regular occurrence, and, using the boy scout worthy knot in his stomach as ammunition, he propelled himself forward. John’s gentle hands helped to guide him across the ice, moving them as one entity. Their skates weren't moving in sync, but, in a way, echoing the men's heartbeats, regulated and mismatched yet somehow unified. 

 

It was pretty gay. 

 

Alex was pretty gay. 

 

Taking his eyes off their still joined hands, off their organised footwork, he took to people watching. To watching the couples skate side by side, some in silence, others captivated in conversation. He supposed that was what they must look like, holding hands as the sun set over the ice; the thought made Alexander’s heart ache -  _ they weren't like that _ . 

 

But then a little boy in a red coat passed them, clutching his father’s sleeve with white knuckles; his bright green eyes clung to himself and Laurens’s joined hands with an equal intensity. The boy blushed, with a small, secretive smile adorning his puffy face. His wide eyes were glittering with ambition and hope and love, and Alexander saw himself. 

 

John noticed - of course, he noticed; “Alright?” 

 

Alex was sure he had a glint in his own eyes as he smiled, “D’you wanna check out the Christmas market?”

 

\- - -

 

With skates lying abandoned in an old shoe rack and hands firmly rooted in their own respective pockets, the boys wandered through the maze of stalls selling hand-painted ornaments, fake, crappy knock-offs of famous company’s best selling products, and untraditionally traditional German cuisine. Fake snow littered the rooftops of each hut, each adorned with their own rendition of the nativity, with wooden caricatures of holiday favourites, with empty, polished gaps where their eyes should be, acting out a vague, inconsistent plot. It smelt like spices, like wood chips seasoned with cinnamon; it made Hamilton’s nose scrunch up instinctively. 

 

A bobble hat-clad child impatiently tugged their mother’s scarf towards a stall as the aforementioned parent shared a pumpkin-spice latte with an old friend, reluctant to move on from the most interesting thing to happen to them all day. Alex felt their boredom - their desire for  _ something _ to happen. He found himself looking at John’s lips as he spoke. 

 

He didn’t quite know what his friend had said, but had gathered from the quirk in his lips that he’d asked a question; Alex hedged his bets and nodded dumbly. Without warning,  _ or perhaps with _ \-  _ Alex hadn’t been paying attention _ \- Laurens seized his hand and dragged him off towards a selection of stalls, each promising variants of mulled booze Alexander had never even thought of trying. Laurens, giddy and giggly, ordered two mulled wines, without prompt. The women poured their drinks, receiving a wink as thanks from Alex’s curly-haired counterpart which made Hamilton unduly angry. 

 

And then John was off again, handing him his drink and telling Alexander to stay where he was, and that he’d be right back; Alex abided, of course, it was  _ John _ . 

 

To keep both his mind and hands occupied, Hamilton brought his steaming cup up to his mouth, allowing the warmth to soothe his cracked lips. He took a sip of the bitter liquid, revelling in the way it burnt on the way down. It was kind of gross, but Alex couldn’t not notice how it seemed to alleviate his burdens from the first sip. 

 

He was burnt out; he smelt like smoke, be it from the stress or the cigarettes, he wasn’t sure. And yet the alcohol was making him feel better already, despite him having only had a mouthful. It was like the drink had lit up the fireplace in his stomach, the smoke seeping from the cracks in his lips whilst fogging up his overactive mind. It was nice. It was just what he needed. 

 

Still, his eyes followed his friend through the sea of seasonal shoppers, watching as John spoke to one of the women in a particularly flashy stall. She was tucking her platinum blonde hair behind her ear, blushing and grinning and laughing at anything Laurens said. And John was reciprocating, flashing his most charming smirk and he handed over his cash. It wasn’t just speaking, Hamilton noticed numbly, it was flirting. 

 

_ Of course... _

 

The remaining warmth in his stomach began to subside, replaced instead with a strange bubbling in his chest. It was loneliness; he’d concluded. 

 

Well,  _ Burr _ had concluded, because he had some sort of weird maternal responsibility for him, and had done ever since he first arrived in New York. He picked up on it, in that instinctive way that only mothers could; he could have sworn Aaron had sixth-sense or some shit, because as soon as life got that little bit too overwhelming, he’d call up and pester him about keeping his whites separate to his coloured clothing. 

 

He thought back to the aftermath of the Christmas party, after his stomach had tied itself into a pretzel style knot at the sight of his friend making out with the intern under the mistletoe. Burr had watched the whole thing from his respective corner, eyes darting from Laurens to Hamilton as though he could read their minds. He’d made his way over, back to the wall, to pass him a flute of champagne and provide a reassuring pat on the back. 

 

Despite their disagreements, Burr really was a good friend. 

 

They were both in the same boat in terms of loneliness, and yet each of them felt trapped in separate, deteriorating lifeboats floating in the middle of the ocean. It was ridiculous how stubborn Alex could be; he’d ignore his fear of abandonment until he was buried in a hole in the ground marked with a neglected gravestone. He’d deny it, always, coming up with excuses - little, white lies he’d write in the little, blue notebook on his desk. It was a habit he’d picked up in school; he’d write down every lie he told in a notebook, not so much as a coping mechanism, but as a way to visualise his mistakes. It was supposed to be an activity to help him reflect and amend his ways, but, later in life, it had become his way of keeping track. 

 

And, so, he filled up a notebook. 

 

And then another. 

 

And another. 

 

Every time he tried to convince himself he was something and it didn't sit well, when he tried to label himself for the sake of an identity, he’d jot it down. Every time he tried to kid himself that he didn’t still think about Nevis; everytime he made an excuse not to hang out with friends, he’d make a note - it helped to keep lies consistent for each new situation. 

 

It was a vicious cycle; he’d promise himself he’d stop lying, and end up writing that phrase, itself, in the notebook when the time came. Alex was nothing if not organised, and nothing if not a liar. 

 

He’d gone home alone after the party, drunk and tired and lonely and  _ drunk _ ; his fingers practically vibrated as he reached for the notebook, as he flipped to the most recent page with a certain sense of childish abandonment, ripping the left-hand corner of the page from the ring binder. Alex had grabbed the nearest pen - a Disneyland branded biro, the pen he’d bought on the group holiday, after John had laughed with slushie stained tongue peeking between teeth at some stupid joke Hamilton had made. 

 

And he’d written:

 

‘ _ I do nOt lik e john. _ ’

 

The letters strayed from the line, varying greatly in size and style, and yet Alex’s intoxicated brain couldn’t find any reason to care.

 

_ I do not like John.  _

 

“Alex? You spacing out again?” Laurens has his hand on his forearm, resting it against the muscle. It was warm, and it burned on the way down like the wine. It felt like home, and it distracted him from the hurricane in his mind. It stung the back of his eyes. 

 

Alexander did not like John. 

 

He just liked the way John made him feel, the way he made him laugh, and smile, and cry, and hurt, and burn. And he liked the way John looked, and sounded, and felt, and… 

 

Something snapped. That little, frayed wire tethering him to sanity broke, just like the silicone cup that now lay abandoned on the cobbled floor, wine seeping like blood through the cracks. It was mad, he shouldn’t be doing this, but his hands were now cupping John’s face, and the light smattering of stubble was tickling his skin whilst the freckles kissed his fingertips.

 

Hamilton was bored, all the time; every day following the same old structure. Like the sunset - it was always followed by the moon. And after an eight, you always find a nine, just as Alex could bet that the sky would be blue tomorrow; it was boring, it was predictable, and he was ready for something,  _ anything _ , new.

 

He wasn’t one for big, sweeping gestures, for showering in rose petals or love ballads written with the same four chords. He never went out of his way to wax poetic about the people he liked, that just wasn’t  _ him _ . That wasn’t Alexander Hamilton. 

 

But, he had to admit, the world halted momentarily when their lips met. 

 

Alex decides he likes the way John makes him feel, and makes him laugh, and smile, and burn, and glow, and shrink, and grow. And he likes the way John looks, and sounds, and feels, and  _ tastes _ . He tastes like a waterfall in a forest, like glitter in curly hair, like fireworks in July, like a sunset over an ice rink. 

 

Like home, he decides, John tastes like home. 

 

Home wasn’t something Alexander had felt for a while. 

 

Laurens pulled back first, and Hamilton couldn’t stop himself from trying to chase his lips. Yet, as soon as they disconnected, Alex’s mind raced to catch up, to come to terms with the fact that he had _ royally fucked this up _ ; he could pinpoint the exact moment his heart splintered in his chest, because  _ of-fucking-course John was going to push him away, what the fuck had he been thinking-- _

 

John rested his forehead against Alex’s own, instantly soothing the migraine that had begun to form. 

 

Reaching into his pocket with a dorky smile, one that caused Hamilton’s chest to tighten, his friend pulled out a sprig of mistletoe, decorated with a rosy red bow, and held it between them; “Guess I didn’t need this after all.”

 

“You motherfucker…”


End file.
